


The Lion and The Wolf

by xXPaintedSmilesXx



Category: The Necessary Death of Charlie Countryman
Genre: After Gabi, Angry Italian with the softest voice uwu, Emotional Manipulation, Hugh Dancy (2004) Fall Burberry Ad, Hugh Dancy Face Claim for the OC, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Manipulation, OC is Italian, Possessive Behavior, Toxic OC but it’s all good, Toxic Relationship, Tragic Nigel Story, aggressive behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 08:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17825315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXPaintedSmilesXx/pseuds/xXPaintedSmilesXx
Summary: Someone takes an unhealthy interest in Nigel, and no one can stop him from getting what he wants.





	The Lion and The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically an AU my pals and I came up with on a whim. Spacedogs is cancelled, it’s Lucadam now — as for Nigel, there’s a new ship in town.

Nigel stumbled out of the bar, or, rather, it was two large Americans with rough hands that were dragging him out. It was cold, and the sidewalk he was thrown to was wet. “Fuck you, ya filthy fags!” He yelled, but they had already turned away and headed back inside.

It was a typical night for the foreigner. He had been thrown out on three bars, and it was barely midnight. It was a habit to pick fights: if someone looked at him funny, he’d bust them up; someone said something Nigel didn’t like, he’d wrap his hands around their throat and choke them till they couldn’t speak again. These kinds of things were difficult to avoid, however. Nigel, as of recently, always got looks, and someone always said something. It was all because of the scar; just grazing his temple, taking out a chunk of his hairline. He was still handsome — with sharp cheek bones, silver hair, a roughly built body — no doubt, but the scar was suspicious. Most Americans either deemed a man with a scar like that to be a war veteran, or a thug. Nigel was neither of those, but he was certainly leaning more towards thug after he was released from the prison in Budapest. Luckily, none of the other inmates ever batted an eye at his ass. They had recognized him, who he was, what he’s done.

Nigel muttered under his breath about how many people he’s killed for putting their hands on him. He took a cigarette between his lips and pulled out his lighter. When it wouldn’t ignite, he chomped down on the bud of the cigarette and threw the lighter across the road, yelling another curse. His head grew dizzy and he burped up all the anger he had left. When he regained his balance, Nigel pushed passed some couple walking down the sidewalk, and headed to another bar.

In the morning, Nigel threw up his Chinese take-out, downed nearly half a bottle of Tylenol, and hopped on the bus to the theatre. He scanned his badge at the back entrance, waved up at the camera, and walked in.

“Heya, Nigel,” one man greeted; Vern, almost fifty-six. Nigel replied with a grunt and lit a cigarette in the confinement of his locker. They didn’t allow smoking in the building, but the Romanian didn’t give a ‘rat’s ass’ as Vern likes to put it so plainly when Nigel complains about having to wax the stage again.

“Have a good time last night?” Vern asked as he buckled his tool belt and locked his locker. Nigel glared up at him, dark bags under his eyes and a few scrapes under this chin.

“A blast,” he grumbled. Soon walked in the supervisor, and Nigel put out his cigarette against the mirror on his locker door. He announced a performance from the some Italian opera was going to use this theatre for their show next week, and that they’d have to set up the lights they ordered and, Nigel’s favourite, wax the stage. “You got it, boss,” Vern chuckled and turned to the Romanian to smirk. The Supervisor left and Nigel slammed his locker shut, his Rolex hitting against the door, making Vern cringe.

“What the fuck have I told you about that damn thing? It’s already cracked as it is, just get rid of it, you’re only damaging it more—“

“Shut the fuck up, Vern!” Nigel snapped and slipped off his watch, stuffing it in his pocket. “This is my fucking watch, I’m not gonna throw it away just because you’re a fucking pussy. Go suck cock.”

Vern scuffed and laughed. Nigel smiled a bit and pushed passed the older man into the backstage area, where the floor waxing machine waited patiently for him.

 

* * *

 

It was the night of the performance, and Nigel was on call. He was in his apartment, laying on his couch, a cigarette between his lips, and his television on the news channel. He never really cared what was on the news, but all the other channels were soap operas, and sitcoms. Nigel hated the news the least out of the three. He turned his head when he heard the name of the theatre he worked for. The pretty reporter with bleached hair and big breasts went on about who was performing, who was going to be there. Just a bunch of Italian families and businesses. Nigel scuffed and his phone rang.

“Nigel,” The supervisor’s voice spoke through the line once he answered. “Vern couldn’t make it, we need you.” And he hung up before the man could reply. Nigel cursed in Romanian, stuffed his phone in his pocket, put out his cigarette, and grabbed the keys to the company truck.

When Nigel arrived, he drove around to the back and unloaded the extra music stands for the orchestra pit. From the corner of his eye, he could see all the expensive cars drive by him and go around to the front, dropping off the guests. He huffed and headed inside with the equipment.

Throughout the whole performance, Nigel was placed on bathroom duty. He changed into the uniform and stood just by the sinks in the men’s restroom, handing out towels and thanking the men, in their fitted suits and clicking shoes, for coming. The rest of the time, Nigel would lean against the counter and listen to the men and woman singing. Nigel wasn’t just some thug, or custodian, or bath butler, he enjoyed music. He was cultured in that sense. A cello solo came up, and the man’s hands clutched at the counter, so tight his knuckles grew pale and his forearms ached.

 _No,_ _fuck_ _her,_ _that_ _dirty_ _slut,_ Nigel thought and his brow twitched. He really needed a cigarette.

At the end of the show, Nigel stayed behind and recycled all the pamphlets left in the seats. He made his way up to the box seats, and jumped when spotted a head of wild curls still seated. “Hey—Uh, Sir,” Nigel moved around to get a look at the man. “Everyone’s already gone. The theatre is closing. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The man looked up, blinked once, and stood. He adjusted his suit, and gave Nigel a polite smile that made his striking blue eyes gloss over. “Thank you, I noticed.” He had an accent. _A_ _fucking_ _Italian_ , _money_ _whore_. “Beautiful, wasn’t it?”

Nigel turned over his shoulder to the stage; the orchestra was filing out of the pit and the backdrops and props were being take down. “Uh, yeah.” He turned back to the man. Nigel frowned. He was gone. “Bastard,” the Romanian growled.

From the box seat, Nigel could see the man exit the stairs and stroll down the isle. “Fuck you!” He wanted to yell, but he couldn’t. He’d get fired. But Nigel was itching to punch someone. He made his way downstairs and checked out after handing in the keys to the truck to the supervisor. Tonight he wanted to fight. Where better to do that than at a bar?

It was cold, like all the other nights before, and it was going to start raining soon, but Nigel still kept walking, right passed his apartment and to the nearest bar that hadn’t banned him yet. He walked in, climbed up on the first stool he could find; he slapped down a few bills and downed four shots. After his fifth, he was going hand to hand with some big guy with a cross hanging from his neck and a thick Brooklyn accent.

Nigel got home with blood spilling from his lips and his knuckles torn to shreds. He laughed as he slammed his door, spat into the kitchen sink, and pulled off his clothes. His veins were still thrumming with ecstasy, and when he looked up into the bathroom mirror, his pupils were blown wide. The man smiled, blood painting his sharp teeth, and grunted out a “Fucking hell,” before starting a shower.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few months, at almost every performance, from some high school choir in January to the trending broadway in March, he’d see that head of curls in the audience. One night, just a week before some spring ballet, when Nigel was helping hang the lights, he spotted those curls in one of box seats. He grabbed his flashlight and clicked it on, and as he raised it up to the man’s face, the man stood. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be here!”

Vern had looked to Nigel, hitting at his thigh. “Just radio security—” He began, but when he turned to see who it was in the theatre, he grabbed Nigel’s flashlight. “Hey, stop that! What the hell are you thinking?!”

The Romanian growled and shoved Vern away. “Fuck you, that little bitch can’t be here!”

The older man looked back up into the box seat, his face twisted in horror. The head of curls was gone. He heaved a sigh of relief. “Just get back to work, you fucking prick.” Nigel frowned, taking his flashlight back, and went back to work. That rage was building up again.

Nigel was walking down the sidewalk after work, his muscles aching from climbing up and down the ladders and readjusting the spotlights; a cigarette between his lips. He was starving and he had gotten his check yesterday. He’d get himself some dinner with the money he had in his wallet and then deposit his check on the way to work tomorrow morning. Just as he was about to toss his bud to the ground, two pairs of strong arms grabbed him and dragged him into the nearest alley.

“What the fuck—!” Nigel shouted, but was silenced as he was thrown against the wall. He could hear his shoulder make a hideous pop and then a foot kicked at his stomach. Two tall men in black clothes and ski masks towered over Nigel; one was reaching down to yanked Nigel back up onto his feet, and the other held a metal baseball bat, but both had crosses around their necks. “Oh fuck!”

The head of the bat collided with Nigel’s knees and he tumbled to the ground. Back and forth, both men got a good beating out of Nigel; as they were finishing, one of the men had even spat, “ _Chi_ _è_ _la_ _piccola_ _puttana_ _ora_?” The one with the bat tossed it aside and they both left. Nigel tried to peel himself off from the ground, but once he got to his feet, he threw up his guts, retching until he was on the ground again.

It took almost and hour — half of that time Nigel was still trying to stand, and the other half, he was limping down the side walk — before a guy driving a taxi was kind enough to offer a ride to the ER. “N-No, no, just take me back to my apartment,” Nigel grumbled as he climbed into the back seat. The driver just nodded, and when they arrived, he took Nigel’s money, and drove off like nothing had happened.

Inside, Nigel screamed at the top of his lungs and threw himself onto the couch, the pain already numbing his body. A few hours went by, Nigel had popped his shoulder back into place, adjusted his broken nose, and stitched up the slice in his skin that had formed from the impact of the bat. He was three-fourths deep in a bottle of whiskey when the sun began to rise, it’s annoying rays filtering through his window. All that went through his head was what the cross that hung around the neck of the guy at the bar, and that man with the curly hair.

Only a few days passed, and Nigel was back at work. He stuck to waxing the stage. It was early in the morning, and the ballet was rehearsing for their performance, Nigel was sitting up in the balcony with a control panel. All he did was shut on and off the light system when the director waved. On about the sixtieth time he restarted the system, it was already the end of the rehearsal; the lights went on and he spotted those elastic curls in the box seat just below home.

Nigel stood up and growled, “That little bitch.” He tossed the control panel onto one of the seats and raced down the steps to get to the booth, but just as he got to the ground floor, he was blocked by a horde of ballerinas trying to make their way out of the theatre. “Shit—!” He pushed passed all the skeleton girls and all too feminine boys; but as he finally make it back to the other side of the theatre, Curls was gone. “Fuck!”

“You curse an awful lot. It’s very unbecoming,” A voice like silver spoke from behind the Romanian. Nigel spun on his heel and glared down at the man, his dark gaze meeting the man’s blue one.

“Why are you being such a fucking ghost? You always find your way in here. You can’t fucking be here!”

“Or what? You’ll beat the shit out of me?”

Nigel growled at his remark.

“Looks like someone got to you first.”

“Fuck you!”

The man reached up and grazed a finger over the bandages on Nigel’s forehead before his hand was swatted away. “You stitched this yourself?”

“Don’t fucking touch me—”

“Who did this to you?”

“Just a couple of thugs. I had it coming.”

The man frowned. “I’m sorry, but you can’t say you deserve something like this.”

“Yeah, well I’m no walk in the park to be around.”

“You think someone’s put a hit on you?”

Nigel paused and gave a nervous shrug. “I don’t think it was a hit.” He never thought of it as that. Things like this happened all the time in Budapest. Nigel would send his men to target some bastard, but they never planned to kill them; just scare them. Especially if they were just some mere nuisance.

“I can protect you, there a lot of gangs in this area. A lot of them are very bloodthirsty. Anything to boast their reputation.”

Nigel cringed and took a step away from the man. “Why would you want to do that?”

The man shrugged and combed a curl behind his ear. “Because I’m a kind person.”

The Romanian clenched his jaw and clenched his fists at his side. “No, I’m fine.” The man made Nigel extremely uncomfortable. He did believe that Curls wanted to help him, but he didn’t believe his reasoning.

He leant forward, trying to meet Nigel’s eyes, and hummed, “If you ever need anything…” And he slipped a card into his hands. Nigel took the card and looked down at the fancy font. It read: “ _Gusto_ _dei_ _Tazzioli —_ _Cucina_ _Italiana_.”

“What the fuck is this?” Nigel spat, but as he looked up, the man was gone. “That fucking faggot.”

 

* * *

 

Nigel was more than relieved to arrive at the theatre the night of the ballet and not see Curls in the box seat. And for the next several weeks he didn’t see him. The Romanian was slowly starting to believe that he might have actually been a ghost, but always brushed it off. He was never superstitious. The days went by slow, but uneventful — well, uneventful by Nigel’s standards: get off of work, go to a bar, get drunk, get kicked out, and stumble home. One night, he even took home some little birdie, and fucked her up against the door of his apartment before they even got inside.

Other than that, Nigel was bored out of his mind. He wanted to get into another fight, but his body couldn’t handle it. His ribs were barley healing and his shoulder still ached when he moved it. Especially when he moved to grab his cigarette pack that was always in his back pocket. But, currently, he was out. “Fuck,” he grumbled and stood. He’d need to get more. It was nearly four A.M. The only thing that was open was the gas station a few blocks away.

Nigel stood up and stretched, his spine clicking into place, and grabbed his wallet from the table by the door. He slipped on a pair of cheap sunglasses and strolled down the hall. He was about to grab the railing of the stairs when some guy shoved his shoulder as he was getting by. “Excuse you, asshole,” the Romanian cursed and hopped down the steps.

“Hey, Nigel,” The cashier, a pretty girl with big tits and a pearly smile. “The regular?”

Nigel grunted a “yeah” and tore open the pack as soon as it was tossed to him. He handed her some bills and she leant forward onto the counter, showing off her impressive set. “You may be old enough to be my dad, but I still think you’re sexy.”

He looked up as he lit the end of his cigarette. “Is that right?”

The cashier, who’s name tag read “Catrina”, nodded and licked her lips. “Yeah, that scar just gets me hot and bothered.”

“How old are you?”

“My driver’s license says I just turned twenty a week ago.”

“Twenty?”

The cashier nodded again and held up a set of keys. “The back office doesn’t have cameras.”

Nigel nodded, finished his cigarette, and let Catrina take him by his belt into the back office.

 

* * *

 

Catrina washed her mouth and reapplied her lipstick in the public bathroom while Nigel buckled up his pants just outside the door. “Does this mean I can get another pack for free?” He asked, jokingly.

“Maybe if your dick was bigger than you ego,” she shot back, laughing, and Nigel rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Yeah, whatever. I’m heading out.”

“See ya later.”

“Uh huh,” he replied and pushed open the door, walking out into the rain. The sun was supposed to be up, but the clouds were blocking it, blanketing the whole sky in a murky grey. Nigel flipped up the collar of his coat and made his way back to his apartment.

It was Sunday, and Nigel was off. On days off, Nigel slept, making up for all the hours he didn’t sleep during the week. He took a deep breath of air once he got into the lobby. No one ever manned the desk, per usual, so it was silent, usually; but as Nigel was climbing up the stairs, there was the shattering of glass. He paused and cringed. “The fuck?” He muttered and made his way slowly up the stairs.

Right away, Nigel spotted his door ajar and his hand went to his pocket to pull out a switch blade. He swallowed down the lump in throat and kicked off his shoes. His feet slid across the hall to his apartment, and he pushed open the door with the butt of his blade. Inside, his furniture was shredded and toppled over; his kitchen was completely trashed, with pots and pans and cutlery all over the counter and floors. From the hall, Nigel could see a silhouette pass under the bedroom door. He quickly backed up into the hall closet, tossed his sunglasses aside, and grabbed his gun from a shoe box.

With his aim high, Nigel kicked open his door and fired at the first body he spotted. The man hit the ground. His shoulder ached and he lowered the gun. But in front of him was no thug, but the pizza-face boy who ran the desk on weekends. “Oh shit!” Nigel threw his gun aside and ran into the room, falling by the kid’s side. “Shit, shit, shit!”

The boy twitched, incoherent words sputtering from his lips, something along the lines of “I heard a noise;” he coughed and blood splattered against Nigel’s cheeks. “Fuck, stay with me kid!” He yelled and pressed his hands to the wound on his stomach, with no anvil. More blood spilled from between his fingers. From behind him, he could feel arms grab him, pulling him off the kids. Nigel was on his feet, a buff around around his neck, but before the attacker could do anything else, Nigel elbowed his stomach, leant down, grabbing the gun, and spun to shoot them right in the throat.

“Oh fuck me!” Nigel growled when he recognised the man. It was the fucking handyman from downstairs. He tossed his gun across the room and tore off his coat to wrap around his neck. But he had already stopped breathing. “What the fuck?!” He stumbled out of the apartment.

Luckily, Nigel was on the side of town that everyone knew not to investigate any gunshots. Even if they were just next door to them. This the part of town where women screamed “ _Fire_!” instead of “ _Rape_!” because that’s all people with listen to. And when these people heard gunshots, they all knew it meant business; which meant no interference. Except for the dumbasses lying dead on the floor of Nigel’s apartment. He was cursing all the way down the stairs, and bit his tongue when he got outside.

His hands were shaking, still coated in blood; all he could think was that he needed a cigarette. Nigel pulled out his new pack, but a card also slipped out of his jeans in the process. He looked down and frowned. He had no other choice. _Gusto_ _dei_ _Tazzioli_. He typed the address into his phone, smearing blood on the screen, and began walking.

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s see how far this goes.


End file.
